How The Mighty Have Fallen
by WolfKidBirdGirl
Summary: "We have a demon, we have an angel inside, within our souls, and you just play with it, and sometimes the evil part of you wins the battle, in a very important decision. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose." AU, set after Batman Begins.


**Oh, wow...I'm actually posting this.**

**Anywho, this is (or was) supposed to be a crossover fic, but I dumbed it down because there wasn't really enough material to cross it over with, and I didn't want to put in in the crossover section. But alas, some can still consider it a crossover. **

**Anyway, this is sort-of-kind-of a Gone series, Dark Knight, Under the Dome crossover. (More of Gone because, lets face it, Under the Dome ain't got nothin' on the literary genius that is the Gone series.)**

**So, anyway, if you don't know what Gone is, go check out the plot. It involves giant domes, disappearing adults, and mutations. All are present in what I've written below, save for the disappearing adults. And I've borrowed a lot of plot points and have expy's of some of the characters.**

**This is set after Batman Begins, but the Joker, Bane, and virtually anyone and everyone from the Dark Knight Rises will be making an appearance. Basically it's just a mass of characters, and maybe even some from the comics *wink winkHarleyQuinn wink wink* **

**This is more of an experiment...see how many people like it. **

**Anywho, glad I got that off my chest. Now, onward!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Dark Knight or the Gone series. Obviously.**

**Oh, and reviews would be just _peachy._ ****  
**

* * *

_"But what is liberty without wisdom, and without virtue? It is the greatest of all possible evils; for it is folly, vice, and madness, without tuition or restraint.__"_

_-Edmund Burke_

Norman Keating was a man with an average name and a not-so-average hobby.

Gotham had always been a cesspool, in his eyes. A churning city in constant motion with a prodigious business system to boot. And people like him; men like him with average names and not-so-average jobs flocked to the city like geese in the winter.

It was ambiguous. The world didn't care what happened in Gotham. Only Gotham cared what happened to Gotham, which made sense. No outside help. No outside investigations that would catch the eyes of the general public.

Gotham was a small world, and that made insignificant things, such as trafficking, even smaller. And Norman Keating liked that.

The parking deck was empty. Norman was finely dressed for the occasion, rolling a cigar between his rough fingers. He didn't look like a businessman – he looked like someone trying to be a business man and instead came off frightening. His hair was shaven down to his skull and his lips had been set, by his father, into a permanent scowl.

He glanced down at the girls. They were crying, sniffling, trying to yell. The tape across their mouths didn't make them look any better than they already were; they looked like rats, garbage. People who deserved to be in such a situation, no matter how horrific. It wasn't like people missed them. It wasn't like he stole girls from their homes, well-known girls of Gotham, and sold them.

Nah. These were…lower class. These _wouldn't _be missed.

He heard a car approaching. His men lounged against parked vehicles, guns ready.

"Their early," he felt someone's breath on the back of his neck. They'd approached without warning. Norman didn't want to turn around – he was new in town, had never affiliated with Gotham's more…_erratic_ criminals.

"Better do it before _he_ gets here," Norman murmured. "This is a new suit. I don't want it ruined in the fight."

"You do have exquisite tastes."

"Says a man who wears a sack on his head."

Norman chuckled, and Scarecrow – no, Crane – no, _Scarecrow_ or whatever his name was, hissed like a cat with its tail caught.

"You anger me, Mr. Keating. I supplied you with these women," he gestured with one hand. "We are splitting the profits."

"Uh-huh."

"You adhere to our deal, and you will escape unscathed. I have followers as well."

"I'm sure."

The car sped around the curb. The driver was masked, though not with the extravagance of Scarecrow, and armed. The girls began to struggle and Norman barked – he couldn't lose control of his property. Not now. Not while the cash was so close…

He took a deep breath, rolling the cigar once more. Then he tossed it before the eldest of the women and stomped it out.

"Stand," he demanded. They obeyed.

Just like they'd been trained.

His buyer was well-known, like Scarecrow. Not as vague. More stylish…more…sane. He didn't need to be restrained, like some of these criminals. Norman had witnessed crime. Maroni was in his top ten buyers.

He wasn't a freak, like the hunched, masked thing behind him. He had standards. Trafficking wasn't one of them.

Even before the car pulled to a stop, Norman detected that something was off. Something was…amiss.

A cry pulled him from his thoughts.

"Now _he's_ early," Scarecrow rasped, backtracking towards the van. Norman immediately began scanning the ceiling, watching, waiting. Absently he reached for his gun and gestured to the driver of the vehicle pulling before him, _stay in the car_.

Like that would save them. Their asses were pretty much screwed.

The black, masked_ thing_, barely recognizable as human swept down – like a bat, ironically – and grappled with Norman's men. A gun fired, shattering a glass window. Norman raised his own weapon, and fired.

Batman leaped back. Turned, and Norman realized that his idea was stupid, that he was stupid, and only way to save his skin was to grab the girls – _his _girls – and get the hell away.

"Into the van, now," Norman barked, sweat beading on his forehead. He'd taken one glance towards his precious property, and Batman had disappeared. Gone. One of Norman's men lay sprawled across the hood of the car, moaning.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This is like a bad date night. But with weapons.

And a tumbler. Or whatever you called it. Norman wasn't big on names – he was new to this city, and this city was pretty weird.

The machine crashed through the parking deck like a wrecking ball. The women shrieked when they saw it, broke from their chain. Scarecrow barely had enough time to leap from the van behind the tumbler smashed into its side, sending careening away. Norman dove, staggered to his feet, and turned.

"Boo."

He fired three shots at Batman's chest, but it had no effect. He swung and missed. A hand wrapped around his throat.

"What are you doing with these women?"

"Selling them," Norman kicked at Batman's thigh. "What do you think I'm doing? Put me down – let me live and I swear I'll–"

Batman hurled Norman and he landed, hard. He felt his shoulder slide from its socket. He cursed feebly and kicked as Batman approached, lips pulled back into a snarl.

He grabbed him again, lifted him, slamming his back against a car.

"I'll leave this city," Norman rambled. "Man, I don't even like it here – your criminals are weird, the Mob is full of assholes, my business won't thrive in a place like this–"

"I'm putting an end to your business."

"No, man, help me out here. I've never been caught before, much less by…by you," Norman struggled, but Batman's grip was far too strong. Norman noticed that, every once and a while, the Bat would scan around, as if looking for something…

Scarecrow.

"I'm not who you're after," Norman gurgled. "Scarecrow. He's been an employee of mine. I'll tell you where he's gone if you let me go."

Batman tilted his head to the side. Then he simple snarled and bashed Norman's head against the car, as if he hadn't the time for such nonsense.

Norman Keating fell unconscious to the sound of roaring sirens.

* * *

That was one of the many occurrences of that night. Norman Keating's capture by Batman's hands. But criminals still prowled – a notorious clown was making a name for himself. Notorious. Deadly.

Deranged.

Insane.

It wasn't like Bruce – Batman – thought about that every second of the day. It wasn't like he…expected the craziness to occur. Being ready was one thing, expecting it to happen was another. They weren't joint attempts – armies didn't simultaneously prepare for and try to prevent war.

Bruce did the thinking. Batman was the doing. Batman was…separate – or at least Bruce tried to keep it that way, even when he suited up, slipped into the armor, sheathed his weapons and destroyed anything that got in his way.

Maybe he'd turn into two entirely different consciousness, like Scarecrow and Crane.

Maybe not. Maybe he'd just be…him.

The preparing part happened while he was speeding down the streets of Gotham, attempting to avoid the police. They were always after him – always. For the police, this was the chase of the century. For Batman, it was protocol.

What was normal to the spider was madness to the fly.

He happened to glance up at the sky. He was reaching the outskirts of the city, and he planned – key word: planned – to speed off onto the highway like he normally did, run them dry. Unlike the tumbler, they needed gas, they _got _tired.

He heard the crackle of electricity in the air. He saw pedestrians, few in number, on a late night stroll, pause from gaping at the tumbler and look up.

Then, a peal of thunder. An explosion.

Batman skidded the tumbler to a stop as, before him, on the very edge of the city, a gray sheet burst from the ground and extended towards the sky.

Police cars skidded as well. Batman watched, stern complexion crumbling as he watched a truck neatly sliced in half by the barrier, go sliding into a building. A police car to his left didn't stop in time and hit.

The car crumpled. The cop inside crumpled, too, and Batman witnessed it all.

He jerked back into reality, saw the cops burst from their vehicles. Unable to stare at the barrier any longer, Batman jerked the gearstick and sent the tumbler squealing down an opposite route.

The police did not follow.

* * *

_And here…we…go…!_


End file.
